


promise when you go

by waveridden



Series: if this is the end [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hellmouth Sunbeams (Blaseball Team), Season/Series 06, background Breckenridge Jazz Hands (Blaseball Team)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26413474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveridden/pseuds/waveridden
Summary: Four days before he gets incinerated, Randy Marijuana sees it coming. (A story about what will be, what could be, and how to say goodbye.)
Relationships: Dominic Marijuana & Randall Marijuana, Randall Marijuana & Hellmouth Sunbeams
Series: if this is the end [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944283
Comments: 22
Kudos: 65





	promise when you go

**Author's Note:**

> [through tears] so blaseball, huh
> 
> Inspiration is from a combination of Twitter RP, the wiki, the Discord, and things that I personally want to see. Specifically, lots of people talked about what precognition means, and, well, I wanted to talk about it too. All love to Tam, who helps me make sense of my ideas, and who always has answers for my weirdly specific questions.
> 
> ETA as of 9/29/20: this is part of a series! I also wrote a Dom incineration study. Both of them work as standalones, but they work well as a pair, so you can choose your own adventure here.
> 
> Content warning: this is 100% about death, specifically the lead-up to Randy getting incinerated, and grappling with knowing that he is about to die. Minor warnings also apply for drugs/alcohol and implied burn trauma.

Randy wakes up screaming.

He’s had precognition dreams before. It was supposed to be a blessing for batting, but it bleeds through to other things. Mostly not actionable things, which is inconvenient - he didn’t know about Emmett, and he didn’t know about the feedback until he was at bat in a Jazz Hands uniform. It’s mostly just random dreams about other players, or about his family.

This isn’t like most of the dreams.

His hands are shaking. It’s too early in the morning to call Dom, and too late at night to call Layna, and he doesn’t know anyone in Breckenridge, not yet. Not like this.

So he does the only thing he can think to do: he dials Sandy’s number.

Sandoval, god bless them, picks up within ten seconds. “Kid, what are you doing awake?”

Randy opens his mouth to tell them, and then he realizes with a horrible, terrible clarity that he can’t. There’s no way he could inflict this on Sandy, no way he could force them to share this burden. They wouldn’t know what to do.

“Homesick,” he says at last. It’s not completely a lie. Leaving Hellmouth has been rough, and the Hands just played a series against the Sunbeams, so he’s feeling it a little more acutely. Sure, the whole becoming-a-demon thing wasn’t ideal, but Hellmouth is where his friends are. Hellmouth was his home for a while, and he knows how to navigate it way better than he can navigate Breckenridge.

Sandy makes a sympathetic noise. “Tough break, huh? And we lost Horne a couple weeks back.”

“Yeah, it’s a rough season. You guys hanging in there?”

“You’re checking up on me?”

“Why not?”

Sandy clucks their tongue in disapproval. “Because you’re calling me in the middle of the night out of homesickness, Randy. That means I get to check up on you this time.”

“You check up on me every time.”

“Absolutely right.”

Randy chuckles and leans his head back against the wall. It’s almost enough to forget the dream. It was like watching a movie. It was like nothing he’s ever seen. It was-

“Randy?” Sandoval says, gentle, probing. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Randy says, and it takes control he didn’t even know he was capable of to keep his voice from cracking. “Can you just… talk to me for a little while? Tell me about your new players or something. Isn’t one of them a dragon?”

“He is now.”

“He wasn’t before?”

“Hellmouth,” Sandy says, and Randy _ohs_ in understanding. “You have to tell me stories about your new teammates too, though. I want to make sure they’re treating you right over in Colorado.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Colorado,” Randy says, even though he personally thinks there’s quite a lot wrong with Colorado. It’s all subjective stuff, not the kind of thing Sandy’s worried about. Or, mostly not. Sandy’s probably also worried about his happiness or whatever. They’re protective. It’s not always his favorite thing, but sometimes it’s nice to feel protected.

“Sure, kid,” Sandy says, just shy of patronizing. “I’ll tell you about the dragon and you tell me about the mountains, or whatever. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good,” Sandy says, and for a moment Randy feels terribly, terribly guilty about not telling them the truth.

But what could he say? How could he tell anyone that he’s going to be incinerated?

  
  


#

  
  


(Four days later, and one dimension to the left:

Randy doesn’t wake up in Breckenridge. He doesn’t wake up in Hellmouth. No, Randy opens his eyes and he’s staring at the ceiling of his brother’s apartment.

“Dom?” he says, or tries to say. His throat is drier than it’s been in his entire life. He tries to move, but everything feels either numb or white-hot and all of it is wrong.

“Don’t move,” Dom says next to him. “You scared me real bad, Randy, don’t freak me out by doing something stupid now.”

Randy, who has never been cowed by the fear of doing something stupid, tries to turn. His neck hurts. It’s hard to move. “Wh’happened?”

“They tried to incinerate you,” Dom says. His voice is ragged; Randy can’t tell if it’s grief or joy. “We think that the whole Hellmouth demon thing meant that it didn’t fully take you out. Your team lost, by the way.”

“Which team?”

“Jazz Hands.”

“Dom,” Randy says. There’s a creeping feeling high in his chest, like a tendril wrapping around his heart. He’s starting to panic. “Wha’s wrong?”

Dom sighs and shifts a little, just enough that he’s in Randy’s line of sight. He drags his hands down his face. “You got burned really bad,” he says bluntly. “You got dropped in here out of nowhere and I don’t even understand how you survived. It’s going to be a long road ahead for you.”

“What now?”

“I don’t know yet,” Dom says. His hand brushes against Randy’s arm, and his fingers are clearly wet with tears, and that scares Randy more than anything. “I can’t stay much longer, I have to keep playing. You know that.”

“Do I have t’play?”

“You were incinerated, Randy.”

“Dom-”

“We’ll talk later. We can figure it out later.” There’s a feather-light brush of fingers on Randy’s shoulder. “I have to go. Just rest, okay?”

“Dom.”

“Later,” Dom says again, with a crack to his voice that makes Randy stop. He doesn’t have the energy - or maybe he’s not physically able - to turn and watch Dom leave. He still doesn’t even understand what’s wrong, but he’s beginning to get the inkling that it’s something big.

He closes his eyes and drifts.)

  
  


#

  
  


“Randy!” Layna shouts over the phone. She’s wine-drunk; he can tell by the way she says his name. “Raaaaandy, we miss you! Why don’t you visit anymore?”

“Layna,” Randy laughs, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t had that much time to visit! We’ve only played you guys once-”

“You guys!” she repeats, half-mocking. “You’re still one of us, weed man, don’t think you get away that easy. Once a Beam, always a Beam.”

“And Hollyweed forever,” Randy finishes.

“Hollyweed forever!” Layna yells. A couple people in the background echo it. There’s some shuffling and Layna mutters something to some people. He can tell as soon as she’s outside, and whatever door closes behind her. “Hey.”

“Hi, Hollywood,” he says, relieved to have a little privacy. “Sounds like you’re having fun.”

“Yeah, we’re playing the Dalé, and those guys know how to have fun. And we’ve been doing lots of team parties lately, even if the full team isn’t…” he can practically picture her grimace. “Right.”

“Ah,” Randy says. “You miss Horne.”

“I miss you!” Layna shouts indignantly. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing, nothing!” He laughs, and after a second she laughs too. “God, you’re so weird. Why’d you ask me to call you?”

“Because I haven’t seen you since we played against the Hands, and I miss you, and you’re not here to help me take care of Elvis.” Layna sighs. “You’d better spend, like, at least half of party time hanging out with me. Dom can have the other half if he wants it, I don’t care, but I get dibs on forty percent minimum.”

Randy laughs, but he suddenly feels sick with guilt. He’s not going to be there during party time. Not telling Sandy is one thing, but not telling Layna? God, not telling Dom about it? He doesn’t know how to keep this secret. He’s not even sure that he should.

“How’s the cat?” he asks instead, which is a cop-out, but it’s not something that she would know is a cop-out.

She hums. “Fine. You could’ve taken the cats with you.”

“A Hellmouth cat?”

“You’re Hellmouth too.”

“Yeah,” Randy says, because he’s past the point of pretending that he’s not. He’s as Hellmouth as they come. “But I wasn’t always.”

“None of us were always Hellmouth.”

“Cats are different.”

“You’re different.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. I’m an unlucky one of a kind.”

Layna sighs, and she sounds so terribly forlorn. And Randy could tell her. Randy could break her heart right now, ruin her night, ruin her whole week. But he’s already going to do that, isn’t he? What’s the point in doing it now?

She says, “Randall.”

He smiles. “Alaynabella.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my-”

“And I think the horns look good on you,” she says loyally. “Hot, even. In a Hellmouth chic sort of way. I don’t care what anyone else says.”

“Are people saying things about my horns?”

“If they are, I don’t care.”

“You’re a good friend,” Randy says. It’s not enough, could not possibly be enough, but it’s all he can do right now.

He can picture her beaming. “I know,” she says. “I’m gonna head back in. Say hi to the Hands for me, or whatever. Make a friend and think of me.”

“I always think of you, Layna.”

“Sap,” she says delightedly. “Talk later.”

“Yeah, talk later. Love you, Layna.”

“Love you to death!” Layna makes a dramatic kissy noise and then hangs up before Randy can do one back. Which is a relief, because for no reason at all, Randy suddenly feels like he’s about to cry.

  
  


#

  
  


(Three days later, and two dimensions to the cosmic north:

It’s halfway through the eighth and ninth inning. Randy plays third baseman for now, so when Harrison throws the last pitch he has to head back to the dugout.

It happens so fast that he doesn’t even realize what’s happening. He takes a step forward and the ground underneath him isn’t ground. In fact, it’s barely beneath him; things like up and down are becoming wobbly and subjective. He doesn’t understand at first, and then he feels the heat, blasting him from behind.

It should hurt. He’s supposed to be dying.

But instead he’s falling. And it feels familiar. Still hot, still burning, but familiar. It feels like home.

Randy lands in Hellmouth, and he doesn’t understand. There’s no reason for him to be here. He should be a scorch mark in The Pocket, surrounded by melted snow. He should be the newest tragedy coming out of Colorado. But instead he’s in a part of Hellmouth that he doesn’t recognize.

With a dawning horror, he realizes that this isn’t the part that used to be Moab. He thinks this is the part that’s supposed to be Hell.

“I want to leave,” Randy says, and it’s futile before the thought is even fully formed but he has to try. “Let me go back to my team, please, they need me.”

WE SAVED YOU, the Hellmouth answers all around him. YOU ARE BACK.

“Can I say goodbye?”

YOU DO NOT NEED TO SAY GOODBYE, RANDALL.

Randy swallows. “Can I go home?”

The Hellmouth doesn’t even answer him directly. Instead, it says, YOU ARE A PART OF US. YOU MUST STAY CLOSE. WE CANNOT PROTECT YOU WHEN YOU STRAY.

He closes his eyes. “What counts as straying?”

He doesn’t get an answer. It’s only now that he begins to understand that he won’t be able to leave.)

  
  


#

  
  


Conrad Vaughan is… listen, Randy’s not going to judge people for liking things. Or for liking things a lot. Or for liking things so much that they become your personality. But they’re not the kind of person Randy’s normally drawn to. They’re loud and bright and bubbly and Randy would much rather be chill and… not bubbly. They’re like a caffeinated soda, and Randy is, well, a lot like weed. Quieter.

But there are two good things about Conrad Vaughan. First is that they also got feedbacked onto the Hands pretty recently. And second is the fact that they came from the Millennials, which means they played with Dom for five and a half seasons.

It’s a tough adjustment from the Beams, but that connection helps. The two of them swap stories about Dom constantly: at team dinners, in the dugout, one time yelling at each other from across the field while Kathy Mathews gave them both ferociously dirty looks. Conrad talks a lot about Dilsney - like, a _lot_ about Dilsney - and it’s… nice. Weird, but nice.

They’re in the locker room after their first game with the Spies when Conrad says, in their overly sincere way, “I really like you, Randy.”

Randy blinks. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever said that to him unprompted, except for Layna, who’s kind of a category unto herself when it comes to random displays of affection. “Thank you,” he says, confused. “What-”

“It’s lonely being new on a team,” Conrad continues. Randy looks, and Conrad makes uncomfortably deep eye contact. “But I’m happy we can be lonely together! We’re getting used to the Jazz Hands, and I think that’s great.”

“I do too,” Randy says, and he hates this, he hates the countdown in the back of his head, he hates that he’s going to be leaving Conrad alone on a new team. “It’s been good having someone to talk to.”

“You were the first person on the Sunbeams to get feedbacked, right?”

“Right.”

“It’s different from an incineration,” Conrad says, and Randy barely holds back his wince. “Because you already know what it’s like, and you have to learn it again. Do you know what I mean?”

“Like learning a new dialect of a language you’re fluent in,” Randy offers.

Conrad snaps their fingers and beams. “What an insightful thing to say, Randy! That’s exactly it. You speak the language, but you have to learn new words. And it’s awfully hard when you thought you knew everything there was to know.”

“Right,” Randy says. God, he’s the worst. Conrad’s so sweet and he’s about to leave them alone with a new player who doesn’t know anything. “It, uh, it’s easier trying to… learn the new words with someone else.”

Conrad reaches out a hand and clasps Randy’s shoulder. “I feel the exact same way,” they say sincerely. “I’m incredibly happy to have you on my team, Randy.”

“You too, Conrad,” Randy says, and it doesn’t feel as bad as he was expecting. Maybe, he realizes, it’s because even though it’s going to end soon, he was happy to be on the Hands. At least for a little while.

  
  


#

  
  


(Two days later, and just barely an inch to the right:

At the bottom of the fourth inning Randy starts coughing, really badly. At first everyone makes jokes about him smoking too much, but then he’s at bat and he doubles over coughing so much that he gets struck out.

When he gets back to the dugout he has to sit down. Kathy hands him a cup of water and tells him to breathe easy, but he doesn’t stop coughing. He doesn’t know why it’s happening. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop.

Innings come and innings go. It’s a bad game for the Jazz Hands, partly because Randy’s not doing a very good job. Conrad asks a thousand times if they should call Dom or an ambulance or something. Finally at the bottom of the eighth he’s supposed to go up to bat, and Aldon Cashmoney grabs his shoulder and forces him to sit down instead. Breaking the lineup order is a major transgression, but it’s a necessary one.

Randy watches as Aldon heads to home plate. There’s a curl of something sick and slimy sitting deep in his gut, but he doesn’t want to put a name to it. Later, he will realize that it was dread. Much, much later, he will admit that it was guilt.

Aldon hits two foul balls and strikes out looking. Ve doesn’t even have time to look back at the dugout before the rogue umpire lifts a hand. Ve doesn’t even have time to make a noise before ve’s gone, just a scorch mark in front of home plate.

The stadium goes quiet. The dugout is completely still. Randy kind of feels like he’s about to throw up, and he can’t stop coughing. Nobody looks at him. He wonders if they remember he has precognition. He wonders if they think he did this on purpose.

He survives the game. He leaves without looking at the scorch mark. He leaves and carefully, cautiously does not ever let himself think: _that was supposed to be me.)_

#

  
  


“Bro,” Dom says. “You’ve been on the Hands for forty days, how does it feel?”

“Like sixty years,” Randy answers, half-truthfully. The first thirty-some days felt like thirty-some days, but ever since the dreams about incineration started the days have felt like decades. He doesn’t know how to talk to anyone anymore. Every conversation feels like a lie.

Randy and Dom didn’t always get along as kids, because they’re brothers, and no brothers always get along as kids. But ever since they started playing pro blaseball, they’ve called each other once a week. They talk about splorts, but they also talk about life, and their friends, and they make plans.

So this is the circle that Randy is running in: if anyone deserves to know what’s going to happen, it’s Dom. But if there’s anyone that won’t be able to handle it, that will try to stop it and get hurt instead, it’s Dom. He’s simultaneously both the best and worst answer for someone to talk to.

But god, Randy really needs someone to talk to.

“How’s the team, though?” Dom says. “I know Conrad, I bet you two are getting along great-”

“Don’t be like that, they’re fine.” He pauses. “We talk about you a lot.”

“Bro,” Dom says, touched. “That’s really nice. But, like, talk about other things, make friends with other people, it’s fine.”

“Uh, I happen to like you.” Randy leans back a little further on the couch. He meant to try and find a better apartment than the temporary ones that the League provides feedbacked players, but he doesn’t really see much of a point now. Still, this couch is pretty comfortable. It’s the little things, he figures. “I’m still getting used to them. It’s hard after spending so long with the Beams.”

Dom hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. The Mills have been getting along with our guy from Houston.”

“Houston? Not Breckenridge?”

“Our Colorado guy got swapped to Houston like a month ago.”

“How,” Randy says, but it’s a futile question. “Well, that’s good. There’s just so much shit to worry about all the time, you know?”

“Yeah,” Dom laughs. “My games, your games, the weather where I am, the weather where you are…”

Randy frowns. Shit, he hasn’t even thought about the weather where Dom is. He’s been a little concerned with his whole personal impending doom schtick that he hadn’t even bothered to wonder if he was missing something about his brother. “You worried about the weather?”

“No, it’s mostly been the blood thing for us. Freaky, but not the end of the world. You guys have some eclipses coming up, though, so be careful.”

“Always,” Randy promises without thinking. And for a second he feels that familiar, nauseous guilt, but he forces himself to stop. That’s not going to fix anything here. “Dom?”

“Yeah, Ran.”

“Playing against you is a lot of fun.”

Dom laughs, half surprised and half disbelieving. “Yeah, kid, it’s fun playing against you too. Wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“Might as well say it now,” Randy says. The rest of it is implicit, but Dom must hear something in it anyways, because he takes a quiet breath. Oops. “Just- with the-”

“I get it,” Dom says. He sounds a little more sober now. “You never know, right?”

“Right,” Randy says, hoping that it’s a convincing lie.

“Don’t worry about it. Or try to worry a normal amount. No matter what you’ll find your way home. Or I’ll find my way back to you. No gods or peanuts or whatever will stop that.”

“Right,” Randy says again. He’s going to get incinerated tomorrow, almost definitely. But at least Dom will look for him. “Thanks, bro.”

“Any time, bro.”

Randy smiles. “Tell me about the Houston guy,” he says. He might not have too much time left, but at least he gets to spend it with Dom.

  
  


#

  
  


(Tomorrow, somewhere:

It is the bottom of the sixth. It is the top of the first. It is the very tail end of the ninth. He is about to strike out. He has just finished running home. He is about to get caught stealing third. He is walking off the field after a game. He sees it coming. His back is turned. Tamara has time to yell his name. None of the Jazz Hands are looking when it happens. He is in the middle of a crowded stadium. He is the last one left.

A rogue umpire lifts a hand.

Randy is gone. He is nothing, dust, a scorch mark on the grass, a smudge on home plate. He does not exist. There is nothing after this.

Or: Randy is gone, and he is in Hellmouth, mostly. There is a corner of the dugout that always smells like weed. Sometimes his cat will start yowling at nothing, but it will be yowling at him. He and Emmett try to hack into Minecraft together, and there is nothing they can do that has an impact, but at least they can do something.

Or: Randy is gone, and he is everywhere. There is a bat in the locker room in Breckenridge that nobody ever touches again. There is a building in Hellmouth that is a statue of him that is a cat cafe that is Rhys that is Velasquez that is Emmett that is Randy. There is a corner of Dom’s apartment where he starts growing flowers, mostly yellow, a handful of blue.

Or: Randy is not gone, but nobody can see him. He watches Steph Weeks walk onto the field. He has only a moment to tell him how to hold a bat before he is somewhere else entirely.

Or: Randy might be gone. It’s hard to say. He’s halfway between dimensions, watching himself in a million different timelines. If you’re completely gone half the times you leave and you don’t leave every time, then where are you, really?

Or: Randy is gone and he’s not sure what he is anymore. But he is something.

Or-)

  
  


#

  
  


As soon as the call connects, Randy says, “I’m about to get incinerated.”

He’s sitting on the ground just outside The Pocket. The game starts in fifteen minutes, but he had enough time to duck out and make one last phone call. One last conversation.

He and Emmett and Nagomi never really talked about what it means to see the future. He’d always felt weird about the fact that it wasn’t strictly splorts-related, and so he never said anything. He kind of regrets that, now that Emmett’s gone, now that Nagomi won’t have a chance to talk about it with someone.

“I’m sorry,” Nagomi says after a moment, voice careful. “Did you have time to talk to Dom?”

Randy shakes his head on instinct. “I can’t do that to him, I couldn’t- he doesn’t deserve to carry that.”

“And I do?” she asks, but it’s not sharp. It’s not judgmental. It’s curious.

He sighs. “What do you see? When you look, what do you see?”

“Everything,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I understand. You don’t know exactly what’s next.”

“I know everything that could be next.” He lets out a breath. “Do you think Emmett knew?”

“I don’t think it matters.”

“Why?”

“Because it happened.”

“Do you think it matters that I know?”

“I can’t say,” Nagomi says, tinged just slightly with regret. “Why would it matter? You know better than to think any of this matters.”

“Why would you say that?”

She sighs. “You see everything too,” she explains softly. “You see that it changes depending on the way the wind is blowing, or how your pitcher’s hair is combed. You know there’s no rhyme, no reason, no expectation. We’re here on a whim and we’re gone on a whim, Randall.”

He looks up at the sky. He’s only lived in Breckenridge for half a season. It’s something like New York and nothing like Hellmouth and he doesn’t know it enough to judge it on its own. It could’ve been home, if he had time. He’s never going to get to go home again. The thought is enough that it brings tears to his eyes. He’s going to get incinerated and it’s going to be here, by himself, with a team he barely knows.

“But that makes it all more important,” he says at last. “Every little thing we do matters. The socks I’m wearing, Dom pre-gaming right now-” his voice catches, and he forces himself to close his eyes. “Me calling you. It all matters. Whatever happens next is because of everything that happened before.”

Nagomi hums softly, whether in approval or annoyance he can’t say. “I think it’s good that you got precognition too. You see things differently than I do.”

“We should’ve talked about this more,” Randy says. It feels like his chest is being ripped open. “Why didn’t we talk about this more?”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Nagomi says, and if it were anyone else he wouldn’t laugh, but because it’s Nagomi he snorts quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” he admits. “It’s been a really long week.”

“You’ll have time to rest soon.”

“Morbid,” Randy says, but he’s smiling. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? Don’t tell them you knew. Don’t tell them I knew either.”

“I won’t.”

“Not even Dom. He might ask. He might be intense about it.”

“I can handle your brother,” Nagomi says flatly, and Randy tips his head back and laughs, a real belly laugh for the first time in days. There are a couple tears trickling down his cheeks, but he doesn’t mind. “And Alaynabella, and anyone who asks. Is there anything else?”

“I don’t know.” He pauses to think about it. He has a will, which is contractually required in order to play the splort. He knows Layna has been looking after the cat. Dom’s going to take it hard, no matter what happens, but he has the Mills to help him. “Don’t let anyone on the team find out until after. I need you guys to win.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And it- it’s going to be sad, I know it’s going to be sad. But make it more of a wake than a shiva. I don’t-” Randy swallows. “Nagomi, don’t let them remember me like this.”

“Never,” she says, soft and intent. “Randall Marijuana, they are always going to remember you as the brightest light this team had. Don’t worry about that part.”

“I’m scared,” he says, the only time he’ll ever let himself admit it. “But-”

“But there’s not much of a point to it,” Nagomi agrees. “I know. Let me be scared for you.”

“Thank you.”

“No,” Nagomi says. “Thank you.”

Randy takes a deep breath. He wipes away the couple of tears left on his cheeks. He knows that there will be no more crying.

There’s some shuffling in the background, and she says something he can’t quite catch. When she comes back, she sounds tired. “I have to go.”

“Okay,” Randy says, and stands up. “Be careful.”

“You too,” Nagomi says gently, futilely. “Goodbye, Randy.”

Nagomi only ever said hello to him once, the first time she met him. She hasn’t greeted him since. She has never said goodbye. Randy knows what this means.

“Goodbye, Nagomi,” he says, and the line goes dead.

  
  


#

  
  


Now, and here:

At the top of the fifth inning, there’s a pull behind Randy’s ribs like a hook yanking him backwards, and he knows that it’s time. In all the dreams, he never felt anything before. This is real. This is about to happen.

He’s standing at third base. Conrad’s in left field. The Beams are in the Solarium. Dom is in Charleston. He knows what’s important. It’s what’s keeping him upright.

For a minute he considers taking out his phone and texting someone goodbye, but there’s not much of a point. It creates more questions than answers, and more problems than solutions, and more grief that he won’t be there to help with. No point to any of that.

There is a rogue umpire looking at him. Comfort steps up to home plate. Randy could duck or shout a warning or run away or push someone in front of him. There are worlds where he does that. He could do anything right now.

He could do anything right now.

Randy slowly, deliberately turns so his back is to the umpire. He shifts his stance, ready to play ball. He thinks that if this is the end, he couldn’t ask for a better ending. But that doesn’t mean he wants to see it coming.

He takes a deep breath. He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> promise when you go / you'll sleep with the stars / remember when the lights dim down / it's only the dark/ [the end is just the start](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8VdzowsQHs)
> 
> (say hi on tumblr/twitter @waveridden)


End file.
